THE.  NEW 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    3M2    fifll 


LOUIS  UNTERMEYER 


By    LOUIS     UNTER  MEYER 

POETRY 

FIRST  LOVE  (Out  of  Print)  1911 

CHALLENGE  IQI4 

THESE   TIMES  1917 

THE  NEW  ADAM  IQ2O 

PARAPHRASES  and  PARODIES 

THE  YOUNGER  QUIRE   (Out  of  Print)  IQIl 

" AND  OTHER    POETS  "  1916 

POEMS    OF    HEINRICH    HEINE  1917 

INCLUDING  HORACE  1919 

PROSE 

THE    NEW    ERA    IN    AMERICAN    POETRY  1919 

COLLECTIONS 

MODERN    AMERICAN    POETRY  1919 

MODERN  BRITISH   POETRY  I92O 


THE 

N  EW     ADAM 


LOUIS   UNTERMEYER 


NEW   YORK 

HARCOURT,  BRACE   AND   HOWE 
1 920 


COPYRIGHT,    IQ20,    BY 
HARCOURT,    BRACE   AND   HOWE,    INC. 


THE  QUINN  A  BOOEN  COMPANY  PRESS 
RAHWAY.  N     J. 


A  POET 
(For  J.  S.  U.) 

There  was  a  late  and  lonely  nightingale, 
That  leaned  its  bosom  on  an  icy  thorn; 

Andy  from  the  branch  that  threatened  to  impale, 
A  bleeding  ecstasy  was  born. 

So  have  you  conquered  agony,  and  torn 
A  triumph  out  of  torture.    Oh,  rejoice 

While,  from  the  stab  of  loneliness  and  scorn, 
Rises  the  rapture  of  your  voice. 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  many  of  the 
poems  in  this  volume,  the  author  desires  to 
thank  the  editors  of  The  Bellman,  The  Century, 
Collier's,  The  Dial,  Everybody's,  The  Forum, 
Harper's,  Good  Housekeeping,  The  Liberator, 
The  New  Republic,  The  Pictorial  Review, 
Poetry;  A  Magazine  of  Verse,  Scribner's,  The 
Seven  Arts,  The  Smart  Set,  The  Yale  Review  and 
other  magazines. 

One  of  these  poems  originally  appeared,  in  a 
slightly  different  version,  in  a  previous  collection 
of  verse  ("These  Times"),  and  the  author 
thanks  Henry  Holt  and  Company  for  permission 
to  reprint  it  in  its  present  setting. 

A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love  was  first  pub 
lished  in  The  New  Republic. 


The  cover  design  is  by  C.  Bertram  Hartman. 


CONTENTS 

DEDICATION      V 

A  NOTE  ON  THE  POETRY  OF  LOVE      XlU 

THE  NEW  ADAM 

THE  NEW  ADAM      3 

HANDS      5 

ASLEEP      7 

SUMMER   STORM      8 

WALLS  AGAINST  EDEN      11 

A  MARRIAGE      13 

WRANGLE      15 

NEUROSIS      16 

THE  WANDERER      18 

INFIDELITY      19 

PICNIC  ON  THE  GRASS      20 

DUST      22 

COME!     24 

EQUALS      25 
LOVE      27 

IVORY  AND  ROSE      29 
HAIR-DRESSING      30 
SUPPLICATION      32 
WORDS      34 
THE  MOON      35 
INTERCESSION      37 
LAST  WISHES      38 

ix 


x  Contents 

ENOUGH    39 
THE  MATCH    40 
THE  BEREAVED    4! 

MATTER      43 

FANTASY      45 

MATINEE      46 

THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE      48 

ANNA      50 

NOCTURNE      51 

LANGUAGE      52 

CATALOGUE      54 

"  SO  REIN  UNO  SCHON  "      56 

RAPUNZEL      57 

WINDY   DAYS      58 

BRAIN   AND   HEART      59 

MOZART      61 

BEYOND   SOUND      62 

CONFIDENCE      63 

DISTANCES      64 

ALMOST      65 

HOMAGE      66 

THE  EMBARRASSED   AMORIST      67 

THE   VOICE      69 

A  STREET  WALKER      70 

THE   DERELICT      72 

IMPLICATION      73 

TECHNIQUE      74 

GHOSTS      76 

THE   SHRINE      78 

ADVICE      79 

HAUNTED   HOUSE      82 

WORDS  FOR  A  JIG      83 


Contents  xi 


NIGHTMARE      86 

HABIT      87 

END  OF  THE  COMEDY      88 

THE   WORN    STRING      89 

THE   UNFINISHED   PARTING      91 

THE   LAST   DAY      93 

THE   PARK   REVISITED      94 

FAIRMOUNT   CEMETERY      96 

AFTER   A   YEAR      98 

RETROSPECT      100 

CHANGE      102 

DISILLUSION      Io4 

FREE      105 

GOLD   AND   WHITE      Io6 

SURRENDER      Io7 

THE   PRODIGAL      Io8 

THE   CURE      Io9 

THE  WISE  WOMAN      110 

THE   HOLY   CITY      112 

ESCAPE       113 

YOU      115 

HEREAFTER      116 

BIRTHDAY      117 

FULFILMENT      1 2o 


A  NOTE  ON  THE  POETRY  OF  LOVE 

ALMOST  the  first  thing  that  strikes  one  after  read 
ing  a  quantity  of  Eighteenth  and  Nineteenth  Cen 
tury  English  Poetry  is  the  preponderance  of 
love-poetry.  It  seems  to  have  been  not  only  the 
major  theme  of  every  minor  poet,  it  was  practi 
cally  the  only  theme  of  even  the  acknowledged 
leaders.  Sentimental  love,  ideal  love,  platonic 
love,  lyric  and  libidinous  love,  love  elegant  and 
de  luxe — the  variety  seems  all-encompassing  at 
first  glance.  And  then,  beneath  the  apparent 
diversity  of  design,  one  is  disturbed  by  a  singu 
lar  monotony;  one  quality  stands  out  which  gives 
this  imposing  structure  a  look  of  shoddy  and 
crumbling  artificiality.  Its  mass  merely  empha 
sizes  its  plastered  columns  and  chipped  cornices. 
The  disillusion  is  bewildering.  What  has  dis 
integrated?  Why  is  it  that  what,  in  our  youth, 
appeared  to  be  a  marble  temple  now  seems  to 
be  little  more  than  a  suburban  stucco-house? 

The  answer  is,  I  believe,  fairly  simple.    These 
"  enamored  architects  of  airy  rhyme  "  were,  in 

xiii 


xiv      A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love 

spite  of  their  graceful  decorations,  clumsy  in  the 
use  of  their  material;  ignorant,  at  least  as  artists, 
of  the  possibilities  of  their  most  common  prop 
erty.  They  wrote  endlessly  of  women.  But,  for 
one  reason  or  other,  women  had  ceased  to  be 
human  to  them  and  had  become  somehow  both 
subnormal  and  super-terrestrial.  These  poets 
gave  their  mistresses  strange  attributes;  they 
equipped  them  with  inexplicable  fancies  and  ex 
traordinary  habits  of  mind.  Unable  or  unwilling 
to  probe  their  differences,  they  accounted  for  them 
all  by  surrounding  the  opposite  sex  with  a  spe 
cious  and  convenient  "  mystery  ";  they  made  the 
objects  of  their  affection  less  and  less  like  ordi 
nary  human  beings  until  their  heroines  seemed 
creatures  of  another  and  incredible  world.  This 
combination  of  worship  and  bewilderment  is 
faithfully  reflected  in  the  inability  of  most  mod 
ern  love-lyricists  to  write  actually  about  love. 

Let  me  take,  as  significant  examples  of  the  same 
tendency,  three  contrary  temperaments.  To 
make  the  range  as  great  as  possible,  let  me  choose 
Pope,  Tennyson,  Swinburne.  To  Pope,  the  femi 
nine  world  was  a  world  of  Dresden  china,  polite 


A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love        xv 

persiflage,  bonbons;  a  world  of  elaborate  coiffures 
and  compliments.  Tennyson  saw  it  as  a  universe 
of  suave  saints  with  red  plush  souls;  his  vision 
beheld  a  devotional  and  nun-like  race  dominated 
by  impulses  angelic  in  conception  and  mawkish 
in  fulfilment.  Swinburne,  looking  at  the  same 
world  at  the  same  time,  saw  it  populated 
principally  by  Liliths,  Faustines,  Messalinas, 
Dolores-es,  Felises,  Aholibahs — a  tribe  of  per 
fumed  and  perverse  ladies  lying  about  in  Graeco- 
Gallic  gardens.  .  .  .  None  of  these  poets  knew 
or,  to  be  more  accurate,  knew  how  to  express 
what  love  between  the  sexes  really  meant.  To 
Pope  it  seemed  a  kind  of  fleshly  vers  de  s octet b; 
Tennyson  found  it  serene  and  smug;  to  Swin 
burne  it  was  sick  and  sensual  and  strange.  The 
more  these  singers  celebrated  their  heroines,  the 
further  the  true  figure  of  Woman  receded  until 
it  blurred  and  was  lost  in  a  fog  of  distortion  and 
unreality. 

So — with  the  exception  of  Browning  and  Mere 
dith — with  all  of  the  modern  poets.  Betrayed  by 
their  own  preconceptions,  they  scarcely  saw  the 
objects  of  their  lyrical  concern.  Ignoring  the  liv 
ing  model,  they  evolved  figures  exaggerated  and 


xvi      A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love 

over-colored  in  one-dimensional  effects.  Remem 
bering  only  that  the  poetry  of  exaltation  will  be  al 
ways  the  highest,  they  forgot  that  man's  love-life 
is  not  lived  on  one  plane,  they  forgot  that  even  its 
exaltation  is  dependent  on  an  intricacy  of  kindred 
and  even  contradictory  moods.  They  forgot  that 
all  human  relations,  even  the  tenderest,  have  been 
strengthened  by  the  commonplaces  and  delightful 
irrelevances  of  existence.  They  forgot  that  a 
fully-rounded  passion  has  not  only  experienced 
the  major  emotions  of  possession,  hate,  hunger 
and  scorn,  but  has  also  known  the  minor  moods 
of  irony,  irritation,  frivolity,  ennui.  Their  poetry 
pretended  to  express  the  depths  of  the  closest 
intimacy;  it  simulated  candor,  promised  a  com 
plete  exposition.  But  it  was  scarcely  ever  a  true 
picture,  for  it  omitted  everything  but  the  high 
lights.  Even  the  design  was  false.  It  neglected 
the  little  fluctuating  phases  of  love  which,  be 
sides  being  ecstatic  and  mystical,  are  so  often 
petulant,  sportive,  cynical,  sometimes  merely 
companionable,  sometimes  actually  flippant  and 
vulgar. 

This    queer    combination    of    toughness    and 
tenderness  is  not  impossible  in  English  verse. 


A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love     xvii 

It  is  not  even  new.  It  can  be  found  not  so  much 
in  the  pages  of  the  latest  Georgians  as  in  the  lines 
of  the  earliest  Elizabethans.  What  is  freshest 
and,  above  all,  frankest  in  contemporary  amative 
verse  attempts  the  almost  forgotten  blend  of 
hardness,  heat  and  raillery  of  the  poets  of  the 
Sixteenth  Century.  A  resistless  curiosity  quickens 
the  literature  from  Marlowe  to  Mar  veil.  This 
radiant  honesty  smoulders  in  the  sonnets  of 
Shakespeare,  breaks  into  angry  sulphur-colored 
flames  in  Drayton,  showers  bright  sparks  through 
the  levity  of  Thomas  Carew,  plays  fitfully 
through  the  mocking  banter  of  Andrew  Marvell 
and  bursts  into  that  blaze  of  grossness  and  awe 
which  is  the  glory  of  John  Donne. 

Suddenly  something  went  out  of  the  world. 
The  sparkle  died;  the  ashes,  still  warm,  were  scat 
tered.  For  almost  two  centuries  the  poetry  of 
love  was  also  the  poetry  of  false  postures,  of 
attitudinizing  and  primping  rhetoric;  its  very 
over-emphasis  revealed  a  lack  of  emotional  in 
tegrity.  Its  glow  was,  in  the  worst  sense,  "  hard 
and  gem-like,"  the  sham  fire  of  an  opal;  it  was  a 
celebration  of  the  flicker  not  the  flame.  From  the 
artificial  polish  of  Pope  to  the  even  more  polished 


xviii   A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love 

artifice  of  Swinburne,  little  moves  except  in  a  skil 
fully  superficial  life.  Real  feeling  gives  way  to  a 
pastiche  of  emotion;  in  its  desperate  preoccupa 
tion  with  passion  there  is  evident  the  failure  to 
deal  openly  with  this  most  difficult  theme.  The 
artist  abdicates;  the  puritan  is  regnant. 

It  is  strange  that  this  Puritanism  should  be 
confined  to  the  Anglo-Saxon.  It  is  not,  as  one 
hears  charged  so  often,  a  condition  native  to  his 
temperament.  This  inhibitory  reticence,  in 
credible  to  the  Latin  or  the  Teuton,  does  not 
spring  from  a  prosaic  nature,  for  at  heart  the 
English-speaking  race  is  essentially  romantic — a 
tribe  of  adventurers,  inventors,  explorers;  dissat 
isfied  and  probing  romanticists.  And  yet  the  race 
that  penetrated  the  dark  heart  of  Africa  has 
pirouetted  before  the  heart  of  Woman  and  in 
vented  elaborate  excuses  for  not  exploring  that 
darker  continent.  It  has  escaped  the  hazardous 
adventure  by  capitalizing  Delicacy,  Reverence, 
Womanhood.  Until  very  recently  the  attitude  of 
the  English  (and,  for  that  matter,  the  American) 
amorist  has  been  both  excessively  fervent  and 
exorbitantly  fatuous.  When  the  worshiper  was 


A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love      xix 

not  prostrate  in  a  sacramental  adoration,  he  rose 
no  further  than  his  knees  to  an  almost  impossibly 
sentimental  one.  His  prayers  and  postures  were 
often  not  so  much  imitations  of  passion  as  paro 
dies  of  it. 

In  the  last  few  years  we  have  been  witnessing 
a  return  to  the  upright  vigor,  the  wide  and 
healthy  curiosity  of  our  outspoken  ancestors. 
No  longer  addressing  the  object  of  man's  affec 
tions  as  if  she  were  an  embroidered  wall-motto  or 
an  abstract  ecstasy,  poets  like  Thomas  Hardy, 
Lascelles  Abercrombie,  Rupert  Brooke,  Edwin 
Arlington  Robinson  and,  most  notably  of  all,  D. 
H.  Lawrence,  are  writing  dramatic  lyrics  and 
monologs  that  reveal  the  loved  one  as  fully  as 
they  express  the  lover.  Theirs  is  a  love-poetry 
that  searches  even  while  it  sings.  It  is  written 
with  a  directness  that  tells  of  a  living  and  inti 
mate  relation.  It  is  addressed  chiefly  to  a  woman 
rather  than  Woman,  to  one  who  is  not  only  mis 
tress  but  friend,  the  fellow-mortal,  the  divine 
average.  It  has  not  the  sound  of  a  perfunctory 
peroration  or  a  hymn  to  an  absent  angel  who  has 
either  been  smirched  by  or  cleansed  of  the  blem 
ish  of  humanity. 


xx       A  Note  on  the  Poetry  of  Love 

Such  poetry  combines  the  two  urgencies  which 
impel  all  vital  art: — it  fuses  the  emotion  remem 
bered  in  tranquillity  with  the  passion  kindled  by 
the  heat  and  humors  of  the  moment. 


THE    NEW   ADAM 


THE  NEW  ADAM 

Her  body  is  that  glorious  gate 
Opening  on  fresh  and  surging  skies, 

The  door  of  flesh  that  holds  a  late 
And  larger  Paradise. 

Through  this  I  plunge  with  hungry  haste 
Down  the  old  garden,  stock  and  root. 

Nothing  is  barred;  I  touch  and  taste 
Its  un  forbidden  fruit. 

The  amorous  jungle  spreads  its  feasts, 
The  lion  fawns  about  my  knee; 

A  new  strength  dawns;  and  all  the  beasts 
Are  risen  and  contained  in  me. 

Soft  thunders  gather  as  the  glen 
Unfolds  the  tree  from  which  she  shakes 

Her  heart  for  me — and  once  again 
The  wave  of  lightning  breaks.  .    .    , 


4  .4.  New  Adam 

Oh  shut  the  gate!    Let  me  be  driven 
Down  the  drab  byways  of  the  past. 

What  right  have  I  in  such  a  heaven 
To  whom  earth  clings  so  fast! 


HANDS 

Strange,  how  this  smooth  and  supple  joint  can  be 
Put  to  so  many  purposes.    It  checks 

And  rears  the  monsters  of  machinery 
And  shapes  the  idle  gallantries  of  sex. 


Those  hands  that  light  the   fuse  and  dig  the 

trap, 
Fingers  that  spin  the  earth  or  plunge  through 

shame — 

And  yours,  that  lie  so  lightly  in  your  lap, 
Are  only  blood  and  dust — all  are  the  same. 

What  mastery  directs  them  through  the  world 
And   gives   these   delicate  bones   so   great  a 

power?   .    .    . 
You  drop  your  head.    You  sleep.    Your  hands  are 

curled 

Loosely,    like    some    half-opened,    perfumed 
flower. 

5 


6  Hands 

An  hour  ago  they  burned  in  mine  and  sent 
Armies   with   banners   charging   through   my 
veins. 

Now  they  are  cool  and  white;  they  rest  content, 
Curved  in  a  smile.    The  mystery  remains. 


ASLEEP 

These  hands,  two  nimble  butterflies — 

I  never  saw  them  at  rest; 
Nor  knew  a  tide  so  regular 

Could  move  through  your  stormy  breast. 
You  loved  to  meet  life  dancing 

With  glistening  steps,  till  all 
Your  fluent  body  seemed  a  curve 

In  a  restless  waterfall. 

And  now  you  lie  here  so  coldly, 

So  unbelievably  still; 
A  stone  on  a  marble  river, 

Ice  on  a  wintry  hill. 
Something  has  made  your  beauty 

Inscrutable  and  grave; 
Holding  your  once  warm  body 

In  the  curve  of  a  frozen  wave. 


SUMMER  STORM 


We  lay  together  in  the  sultry  night. 

A  feeble  light 

From  some  invisible  street-lamp  crept 

Into  the  corner  where  you  slept; 

Fingered  your  cheeks,  flew  softly  round  your  hair, 

Then  dipped  in  the  sweet  valley  of  your  breasts 

And  fluttered,  like  a  bird  between  two  nests, 

Till  it  lay  quiet  there. 

My  eyes  were  closing  and  I  may  have  dreamed — 

At  least  it  seemed 

That  you  and'  I 

Had  ceased  to  be  but  were  somehow 

As  earth  and  sky.  .    .    . 

The  night  grew  closer  still,  and  now 
Heat-lightnings   played   between   us   and  warm 

thrills 

Ran  through  the  cool  sides  of  the  trembling  hills. 
Then  darkness  and  a  tension  in  the  black 
Hush  like  a  breath  held  back; 

8 


Summer  Storm  9 

A  rippling  through  the  ground,  a  windless  breeze 

That  reached  down  to  the  sensitive  roots  of  trees; 

A  tremor  like  the  pulse  of  muffled  knocks, 

Or  like  the  silent  opening  of  locks  .    .    . 

There  was  a  rising  of  unfettered  seas 

With  great  tides  pulling  at  the  stars  and  rocks 

As  though  to  draw  them  all  together. 

Then  in  a  burst  of  blinding  weather, 

The  lightnings  flung 

Long,  passionate  arms  about  the  earth  that  clung 

To  her  wild  lover. 

Suddenly  above  her 

The  whole  sky  tumbled  in  a  sweeping  blaze, 

Gathering  earth  in  one  tight-locked  embrace, 

Drenching  her  in  a  flood  of  silver  flame. 

Hot  thunders  came; 

And  still  the  storm  kept  plunging,  seeking  ever 

The  furthest  cranny,  till  the  faraway 

Streams  felt  each  penetrating  quiver 

And  the  most  hidden  river 

Rose  and  became  released.  ... 

At  last  the  stabbings  ceased, 
The  thunders  died. 


io  Summer  Storm 

But  still  they  lay 

Side  by  side, 

While  moonbeams  crept 

Into  the  heavenly  corner  where  earth  slept; 

Dipping  among  her  rosy  hills,  lighting  above 

Her  curved  and  sloping  hollows,  till 

She  too  was  still. 

Beloved  and  blest, 

His  cloudy  head  lay,  seeking  rest 

In  the  sweet-smelling  valley  of  her  breast, 

And  each  was  huddled  in  each  other's  love; 

Or  so  it  seemed  .    .    . 

My  eyes  were  closing  and  I  may  have  dreamed. 


WALLS  AGAINST  EDEN 

Now  Adam,  dazzled,  ill  at  ease, 
Inspects  the  copper-colored  skies; 

Ringed  with  the  roar  of  strange  machineries, 
He  thinks  of  Paradise. 

Yes,  this  is  better.    Here,  at  least, 
Is  speed  and  struggle,  not  the  old 
Languor  of  Eden  and  the  lukewarm  beast — 
•  Here  life  is  hot  and  cold! 

T 

Released  for  action,  Adam  is 
God  in  these  swift  complexities; 

He  laughs  and  leaps  from  cliff  to  precipice, 
Lurches  through  toppling  seas. 

New  grain  is  always  his  to  thresh, 
Through  him  all  energy  is  hurled; 

He  rides  triumphant  on  the  tides  of  flesh, 
Pride  of  a  gaping  world, 
ii 


12  Walls  Against  Eden 

Yet  Adam,  hero  of  all  he  sees, 
Remains  untamed,  unreconciled; 

And,  in  the  midst  of  swaggering  victories, 
Turns  like  a  wayward  child; 

Hungers  for  all  he  spurned,  and  shrinks 
From  clamor  and  the  applauding  cries; 

Lost  in  a  storm  of  dreams,  he  sinks 
Remembering  Paradise. 


A  MARRIAGE 

I  tell  you  it  is  over  and  I  mean  it. 

You  have  been  tugging  at  my  joy  too  long. 
The  coming  of  the  end — you  must  have  seen  it — 

Finds   us  still   struggling,   stubborn   but  not 
strong. 

You  light  your  darkness  on  me,  you  rekindle 
Things  long  burnt  out  upon  my  warmth  in  vain. 

Your  flicker  fails;  the  gusty  fires  dwindle. 
And  though  you  use  me  up,  what  do  you  gain? 

If  you  could  only  drink  some  buoyance  from  me 
Or  draw  me  up,  like  blood,  to  be  transfused. 

But  all  your  heavy  broodings  overcome  me, 
And  leave  us  both  bewildered  and  misused. 

Well,  let  us  try  once  more  this  magnifier 

Of  pride  and  passions.    Let  it  burn  us  through. 

Come,  take  of  me  whatever  you  require; 
I  shall  not  tell  you  what  I  steal  from  you. 
13 


14  A  Marriage 

Thus,  feeding  but  not  fed,  we  waste  each  other, 
And  war  with  weapons  never  understood; 

And  win,  with  each  new  ending,  one  another; 
And  take  up  arms  again  .    .    .  and  find  it 
good. 


WRANGLE 

The  room  was  tense  with  a  sullen  silence; 
There  was  no  sound 

But  the  tentative  chirping  of  a  caged  canary. 
Suddenly  you  said,  " " 

And  there  were  only 

Your  words  and  mine, 

Beating  their  two-edged  swords, 

Clashing  and  wounding  with  a  fierce  intolerance; 

Seeking  the  beloved  blood. 

Red  and  smoking  words, 

Hurling  their  brands  in  a  dark  abandon. 

Words  of  destruction, 

Hot  to  the  hand, 

Hotter  to  the  throat; 

Words  of  living,  hurtling  steel, 

Blazing,  bursting,  screaming,  shattering.  .    .   . 

Till  there  remained  nothing 

But  the  caged  canary, 

Pouring  his  cool  passion 

Over  the  glowing  ruins  of  our  peace. 

15 


NEUROSIS 

Can  this  be  you,  this  harsh,  contemptuous  thing; 

Loveless  and  loathsome?    Will  you  never  shed 
This  angry  hatred?    Must  you  turn  and  sting 

Whatever  you  can  hurt,  discomfited? 

Now  it  is  two  o'clock.    We  both  have  tired 
Beneath  the  blows  of  futile  argument. 

And  still  you  rouse  yourself  to  strike,  inspired 
With  some  dark  force  that  never  can  be  spent. 

You  will  have  one  thing  only  and  no  other, 
And  even  that  seems  hopeless  and  defiled. 

You  who  have  forced  yourself  to  be  my  mother, 
Resent  the  fact  that  you  are  not  my  child. 

Alone  in  this,  your  baffled  insurrection, 
You  will  not  arbitrate  although  you  fall; 

Facing  a  world  of  blundering  imperfection, 
Blind  to  its  offers,  you  reject  them  all. 
16 


Neurosis  17 

I  see  you,  torn  and  lashed  by  your  frustration, 
Turning  to  rend  what  little  joy  you  find; 

In  love  with  nothing  more  than  cold  negation, 
You  seek  but  never  hope  to  meet  your  kind. 

How  will  this  suicide  of  fierce  denial, 
This  rivalry  of  light  and  darkness  end? 

Will  you  not  give  yourself  a  desperate  trial 
And,  much  forgetting,  learn  to  comprehend 
Love  that  is  less  a  father  than  a  friend? 


THE  WANDERER 

Is  it  a  tribute  or  betrayal  when, 

Turning  from  all  the  sweet,  accustomed  ways, 
I  leave  your  lips  and  eyes  to  seek  you  in 
Some  other  face? 

Why  am  I  searching  after  what  I  have? 

And  going  far  to  find  the  near  at  hand? 
I  do  not  know.    I  only  know  I  crave 
To  find  you  at  the  end. 

I  only  know  that  love  has  many  a  hearth, 

That  hunger  has  an  endless  path  to  roam, 
That  beauty  is  the  ghost  that  haunts  the  earth 
And  leads  me  home. 


18 


INFIDELITY 

You  have  not  conquered  me;  it  is  the  surge 
Of  love  itself  that  beats  against  my  will; 
It  is  the  sting  of  conflict,  the  old  urge 
That  calls  me  still. 

It  is  not  you  I  love,  it  is  the  form 

And  shadow  of  all  lovers  who  have  died 
That  gives  you  all  the  freshness  of  a  warm 
And  unfamiliar  bride. 

It  is  your  name  I  breathe,  your  hands  I  seek; 

It  will  be  you  when  you  are  gone. 
And  yet  the  dream,  the  name  I  cannot  speak 
Is  that  that  lures  me  on. 

It  is  the  golden  summons,  the  bright  wave 

Of  banners  calling  me  anew; 
It  is  all  passion,  perilous  and  grave — 
It  is  not  you. 


PICNIC  ON  THE  GRASS 

You,  with  your  face  to  the  sky, 

Here,  but  still  out  of  my  reach, 
Listening  gravely  while  I 

Burst  into  passionate  speech. 

Begging  you  not  to  delay, 

While  youth  is  a  jubilant  strife, 
Till  your  hair  turns  a  virtuous  gray 

And  your  grandchildren  mock  you  with  life. 

Saying,  "  You  must  not  deny, 

But  burn  yourself  out  with  the  flame; 

This  placidly  living  a  lie 

Is  ten  times  as  shameful  as  shame. 

"Oh,  rouse  yourself;  kindle  and  burn 

With  April  before  it  slips  "... 
You  move  your  head  slightly  and  turn 

Your  whimsical  eyes  to  my  lips. 


20 


Picnic  on  the  Grass  21 

Your  eyes  seem  to  lift  with  a  queer 

Light,  as  of  battle  half-won; 
They  challenge,  "  Come,  make  yourself  clear, 

O  wise  man."    And  I — I  talk  on. 


DUST 

Listen — the    dust    at    our    feet    whispers    and 

breathes. 
It  speaks  in  a  voiceless  air  that  is  delicate  but 

august. 
Hurry,  it  says,  for  the  wave  that  rushes  and 

seethes 

Will  spend  itself  on  the  rocks  and  crumble  with 
you  in  the  dust. 

I  turn  from  the  earth  to  your  eyes;   they  are 

bright  as  before. 
Your  ears  can  hear  nothing  grave.     That  is 

merciful  and  just. 
Thank   God  that  you   are  not  burdened   with 

knowledge  and  useless  lore; 
You  can  dance  through  a  world  that  surrenders 
to  murder,  to  squalor  and  lust. 


Dust  23 

Thank  God,  your  eyes  are  screened  from  the  day 

that  I  see 
When  your  laugh  is  a  bony  grimace  and  the 

gold  in  your  hair  is  rust; 
When  your  flowery  hand,  with  its  five  white 

petals,  will  be 

A  sensitive  flower,  turned  yellow,  that  withers 
and  droops  in  the  dust.   .    .    . 

And  we  will  be  lying  apart,  but  compassionate 

winds  will  blow, 
Mingling  our  little  separateness,  a  handful  of 

doubt  and  distrust. 

And  the  years  will  come  thundering  by;   trium 
phantly  they  will  go 

To  creep  back  broken  and  join  us,  with  the 
night,  in  the  frail  dust. 


COME! 

Once  more  you  falter  and  delay; 

Your  feeble  courage  fails  again. 

You'll  yield  to  me,  sometime,  you  say. 

When? 

When  will  you  make  all  this  worth  while, 

And  put  our  jangling  world  in  tune? 
You  answer,  with  a  frightened  smile, 
"  Soon." 

But  soon  I  will  be  cold  and  dumb 

To  your  warm  lips  and  child-like  brow. 
Faint  heart,  hold  off  no  longer.    Come — 
Now! 


24 


EQUALS 

You  child,  how  can  you  dare  complain 
That  you  and  I  may  be  mismated 

Because,  you  say,  you  lack  a  brain 
And  I'm  so  highly  educated. 

The  body  is  the  greater  thing; 

And  you  are  doubly  gifted  when 
You  have  such  hands  and  breasts  that  bring 

More  peace  than  all  the  plans  of  men. 

Take  pride  in  this,  your  beauty;  drink 
The  wine  it  offers  for  our  love. 

Be  glad  you  do  not  have  to  think — 
One  thoughtful  lover  is  enough! 

Holding  the  dearest  things  too  cheap, 
You  give  yourself  a  needless  strife; 

Wiser  than  words,  your  dumb  limbs  keep 
More  secrets  than  I  know  of  life. 

25 


26  Equals 

We're  equal  partners,  that  is  plain. 

Our  love  cannot  grow  dull  or  shoddy 
While  I  have  such  a  lively  brain 

And  you  have  such  a  lovely  body. 


LOVE 

You  close  your  book  and  put  it  down, 

As  one  might  drop  a  tiresome  task; 
And,  with  what  tries  to  be  a  frown, 
You  turn  and  ask: 

"  How  can  you  care  one  hour  for  me 

Unless  your  love  is  all  a  sham? 
'  Childish  and  cheap  ' — but  can  I  be 
More  than  I  am? 

"  Your  poet  knows  that  love  delights 
Only  its  equals,  near  or  far  ... 
'  We  love  the  things  we  love'  he  writes, 
'  For  what  they  are' " 

You  serious  child,  how  can  you  place 

Such  utter  credence  in  a  song? 
It  is,  I  grant,  a  lovely  phrase; 
But  it  is  wrong. 
27 


28  Love 

Why  look,  my  darling,  at  the  world 

Rolling  in  blood  and  murderous  flame. 

And  what's  this  life?    A  brief  torch  hurled 

To  darkness,  whence  it  came. 

The  world  is  easy  to  revile 

Where  much  is  false  and  little  true. 
And  yet  we  live  in  it,  and  smile. 
— And  love  it,  too. 

Cease,  then,  to  talk  of  wrong  or  right; 

Finalities  are  cold  and  far. 
We  love  the  things  we  love  in  spite 
Of  what  they  are. 


IVORY  AND  ROSE 

Here  in  this  moonlit  room,  I  watch  you  slip 
One  shoulder  from  your  dress  and  turn  to  me; 

A  polished  statue,  flushing  to  the  tip 
Of  marble  fingers  gradually. 

And,  like  a  ripe  moon  out  of  flimsy  clouds, 
Blossoms  the  shining  fullness  of  your  breast. 

These    curves    conceal,    this    dear    perfection 

shrouds 
A  soft,  miraculous  nest. 

Your  ivory  body  pulses  as  the  white 

Flesh  catches  flame  and  rosy  tremblings  move 

Over  this  sanctuary  of  delight, 
The  last  asylum  of  our  love. 


HAIR-DRESSING 

Before  the  prim,  old  mirror 
That  stands  so  stiffly  there, 

With  puritan  precision 
You  re-arrange  your  hair. 

Knitting  your  childlike  forehead, 
As,  with  a  whimsical  pout, 

Your  fingers,  smooth  and  dextrous, 
Bring  order  out  of  rout. 

But  here  a  coil  escapes  you, 
And  there  a  bright  strand  shakes 

Over  your  neck  and  shoulders, 
Like  little,  yellow  snakes. 

Serious  and  ensnaring, 
Each  skillful  hand  begins 

To  make  a  knotted  pattern, 
Bristling  with  puffs  and  pins. 
30 


Ha  ir-D  ress  ing  31 

You  pause  to  turn  and  ask  me 

How  this  appears,  or  that, 
Till  all  is  smoothed  and  finished 

With  a  last,  loving  pat.  .    .   . 

My  pretty,  proper  darling, 

With  not  one  hair  amiss, 
Who  turns,  like  some  calm  duty, 

One  powdered  cheek  to  kiss, 

Are  you  the  same  wild  creature 

I  held  last  night,  and  found 
Sleeping  upon  my  shoulder 

With  all  her  hair  unbound? 


SUPPLICATION 

Take  away  your  soft  hair  and  your  softer  lips, 
Loose  me  from  your  twining  fingers;  turn  away 

your  eyes. 

For  I  loved  this  earth,  and  now  a  headlong  pas 
sion  slips 

All  its  earthly  ties. 

I  can  wait  for  heaven,  if  that  is  to  be; 

Let  me  have  those  common  days  and  know 

their  simple  worth. 

Do  not  make  the  quiet-colored  moments  dull  to 
me — 

Let  me  keep  the  earth. 

There  is  much  I  long  to  look  at,  much  I  long  to 

taste. 
You  have  mocked  a  thousand  raptures  with 

contemptuous  power. 

Do  not  let  your  beauty  lay  all  other  beauty 
waste; 

Spare  a  casual  hour. 
32 


Supplication  33 

Let  old  music  thrill  me  to  my  finger  tips; 

Bring  me  back  the  glamor  of  the  things  I  used 

to  prize; 

Lift  this  cloudy  radiance  where  I  only  see  your 
lips. 

Turn  away  your  eyes! 


WORDS 

Why  are  your  lips  so  soft  and  still? 

They  neither  laugh  nor  weep. 
Scorn  cannot  rouse,  nor  anger  kill 

The  silence  that  they  keep. 

Your  quiet  drowns  my  vehemence 

Till  I  grow  hard  and  seek 
A  harsher  tone,  a  loud  offence 

To  make  you  start  and  speak. 

But  when  I  see  those  silent  lips 
Tremble  like  startled  birds, 

I  put  away  the  cowardly  whips 
Snapped  by  my  lashing  words. 

And  when  they  cling  to  mine,  they  reach 
Beyond  the  sphere  of  sense; 

They  put  to  shame  my  deafening  speech 
With  love's  dumb  eloquence. 


34 


THE  MOON 

What  cold,  celestial  laughter 

Disturbs  me  in  the  night? 
It  is  the  moon  that  enters 

The  street  with  a  ripple  of  light. 

His  ghostly  mirth  reminds  me 

How  well  I  ought  to  know 
That  flash  of  evil  humor 

Revealed  some  months  ago.  .    .    . 

Upon  a  beach  where  the  pattering 

Waves  were  music  enough 
Two  lovers  walked,  believing 

The  world  was  made  for  their  love. 

The  stars,  the  crooning  silence 

Worked  through  their  stammering  lips; 

Slowly  it  drew  them  together 
Like  rudderless,  driven  ships. 
35 


36  The  Moon 

In  the  deserted  pavilion 

They  clung  with  a  passionate  faith; 
Hurling,  as  though  for  the  first  time, 

The  deathless  challenge  to  death. 


And  then,  old  moon,  I  saw  you. 

Your  sharp  and  cynical  smile 
Cut  through  our  boasts  and  bravados, 

Breaking  them  off  for  a  while. 

Your  long,  ironic  glances 

Mocked  us  and  seemed  to  inquire, 
What  ash  would  be  left  tomorrow 

Of  this  brief  spasm  of  fire? 

We  paused.    And  then,  for  an  answer, 
She  laughed  in  my  arms  and  said, 

"  Why  should  the  living  listen 
To  you,  the  impotent  dead!  " 


INTERCESSION 

Night, 

Take  down  the  moon's  keen  sickle 

And  reap  a  bright 

Destruction  on  these  light  and  fickle 

Souls  that  dance  with  every  wind. 

Sweep  left  and  right 

Until  these  overplanted  fields  are  thinned. 

But  spare 

In  your  intolerant  wrath, 

One  flower  struggling  where  the  path 

Is  overgrown  with  weeds  and  grass. 

The  rain  has  barely  touched  her  thirst. 

Let  her  drink  sunlight  first. 

Night,  when  you  see  her  waiting  there, 

Pass. 


37 


LAST  WISHES 

Not  mine  alone  and  never  wholly  mine 

Can  your  heart  be; 
I  share  you  with  a  jealous  world, 

With  children,  stars,  a  tree. 

And  with  what  quick  and  generous  recompense 

They  turn  to  you. 
You  give  them  love :  they  give  you  love 

And  tributes,  too. 

You  seem  to  cling  to  me,  but  they  alone 

Will  hold  you  fast. 
Each  look  you  give  them  is  as  long 

As  though  it  were  your  last. 

Such  love  should  be  my  living  monument: 

Let  others  see 
In  your  unconquerable  delight 

How  you  delighted  me. 


ENOUGH 

If  we  have  nothing  more  now, 

We  have  had  this: 
The  keen  joy  of  our  bodies, 

The  white,  unearthly  bliss 

Of  peace  beyond  all  passion, 

Beyond  all  pain ; 
Tears  which  have  healed  the  wounds  that 

We  opened  time  and  again; 

Days,  when  each  casual  greeting 

Was  a  new  thrill; 
Nights,  when  love  touched  and  took  us 

Almost  against  our  will; 

Hours  of  beauty  and  banter — 

A  cry  and  a  kiss   .    .    . 
Let  the  earth  crumble  beneath  us. 

We  have  had  this! 


39 


THE  MATCH 

Do  you  recall  our  first  few  moments  together, 

Or  do  you  forget? 

You  stammered  and  said  something  vague  about 
the  weather; 

I  offered  a  cigarette 

And  took  one  for  myself,  and  there  were  snatches 

Of  laughter  as  you  tried 
To  keep  aflame  those  weak,  half-hearted  matches 

That  flashed  and  died. 

Finally,  with  an  effort,  you  succeeded; 

And,  shielding  it  with  your  hand, 
You  offered  me  the  only  spark  I  needed. 

You  did  not  understand 

When,  as  I  leaned  to  you  and  the  flame  leaped 
higher 

And  you  would  not  let  it  go, 
I  warned  you,  laughing,  you  were  playing  with 
fire  ... 

Now  you  know! 
40 


THE  BEREAVED 

Rich  in  your  grief,  I  watch  you  go 
Wearing  the  perfume  and  the  pomp  of  woe; 
Deprived  of  nothing  half  so  much 
As  of  the  things  you  will  not  see  or  touch. 
Your  pale  and  half-transparent  thought 
Is,  even  in  its  simple  strictures,  caught 
By  all  the  platitudes  of  pride 
And  self-indulgence  that  you  cannot  hide. 
You  have  bereaved  yourself  of  many  things 
Besides  the  bird-like,  childish  joy  that  sings 
Within  your  spirit,  that  which  loves 
Whatever  runs  and  leaps  or  merely  moves. 

Forget  this  self-inflicted  hurt 
And  find  yourself  in  all  the  sharp,  alert 
Business  of  living.    Join  once  more 
The  human  stream  that  surges  past  your  door. 
Go,  leave  your  dead  and  live  again 
In  the  miraculous,  laughing  world  of  men. 
See  how  this  shop-girl's  hunger  thrills 
With  romance  walking  on  the  painted  hills; 
41 


42  The  Bereaved 

Or  watch  her  dull  and  wooden  boy 

Burn  with  a  hungrier  fire  than  levelled  Troy. 

For  you  a  thousand  points  of  light 

Pierce  through  the  funeral  draperies  of  night; 

The  dead  years  scorn  their  cenotaph 

And  in  your  blood  all  ages  leap  and  laugh. 

For  you  the  sun  goes  riding  by 

Over  the  flaming  ridges  of  the  sky, 

And  every  swift,  adventuring  day 

Jeers  at  your  dark,  ridiculous  display. 

Let  these  things  have  you  till  you  grow 

Ashamed  of  your  denial,  and  you  go, 

Shedding  your  truant  airs,  like  one 

Who  finds  instead  of  death  and  life  undone, 

Only  the  promise  of  a  thing  begun. 


MATTER 

When  I  was  a  live  man 

A  few  years  ago, 
For  all  I  might  say, 

For  all  I  could  do. 

I  got  no  attention; 

My  life  was  so  small 
The  world  didn't  know 

I  was  living  at  all. 

Such  stolid  indifference 

I  couldn't  allow; 
I  swore  that  I'd  matter — 

Never  mind  how. 

But  after  a  lifetime 

Of  hunger  and  prayer, 
I  broke  my  heart  trying 

To  make  the  world  care. 

43 


44  Matter 

And  now  as  I  lie  here, 
Feeding  this  tree, 

I  am  more  to  the  world 
Than  it  is  to  me. 


FANTASY 

A  bird  ran  up  the  onyx  steps  of  night, 
Seeking  the  moon  upon  her  silver  throne; 

But  stars  confused  him  with  their  insolent  light 
And  left  him  in  the  friendless  skies,  alone. 

He  watched  the  winds,  disheveled  and  awry, 
Hurling  the  clouds,  like  pillows   from  their 
beds; 

He  saw  the  mountain-peaks  that  nudged  the  sky, 
Take  off  the  wreaths  of  sunset  from  their  heads. 

He  heard  the  storms,  a  troupe  of  headstrong  boys, 
Locked  up  as  punishment  for  petulant  tears, 

Beat  on  the  ebony  doors  with  such  a  noise, 
That  all  the  angels  had  to  hold  their  ears. 

Frightened,  he  left  the  halls  of  thundering  sound 

For  a  less  dazzling  height,  a  lowlier  dream; 
And,  perching  on  a  watery  bough,  he  found 
The  moon,  her  white  laugh  rippling  from  the 
stream. 

45 


MATINEE 

The  poet  stood  reciting 
Examples  of  his  art, 

Considerately  removing 
The  veils  about  his  heart. 

Eager  and  self-revealing, 
He  did  his  stripping  well; 

With  every  burning  poem 
Another  garment  fell. 

With  passionate  abandon 
He  flung  each  cloth  away; 

Exulting  in  the  pleasure 
Of  noble  self-display. 

Until  upon  the  platform 
Were  piled  his  draperies. 

And  still  the  poet  gestured, 
Naked  and  quite  at  ease. 
46 


Matinee  47 

And  no  one  screamed  or  fainted; 

There  was  no  stir  or  start. 
The  ladies  all  applauded 

Such  a  display  of  Art. 


THE  ETERNAL  MASCULINE 

Woman,  though  you  never  heed  me, 

Though  our  ways  are  seldom  one, 
Still  I  look  for  you  to  lead  me 
Up  and  on. 

Be  my  lamp,  my  steadfast  beacon; 

Be  my  friend,  philosopher; 
And,  if  I  should  halt  or  weaken, 
Be  my  spur. 

Draw  me  onward;  leave  me  burning; 

Lash  my  thoughts  with  beauty's  thong. 
Have  no  pity  while  my  yearning 
Makes  me  strong. 

Let  me  seek  you  out,  but  fly  me; 

Never  drop  the  luring  mask. 
Teach  your  mercy  to  deny  me 
All  I  ask. 

48 


The  Eternal  Masculine  49 

Still  your  spirit's  superhuman 

Power  calls  the  best  in  me  .    .    . 
Therefore,  warm  and  earthly  Woman, 
Let  me  be. 


ANNA 

There's  that  you've  not  attempted; 

There's  that  you  could  not  be; 
But  these  things  are  forgiven  you — 

At  least  by  me. 

Others  are  brighter,  braver; 

Others  more  sweetly-grown; 
But  you've  a  salt  and  savor 

Of  your  own. 

Earthy  and  hard  and  wholesome, 
You  stand  here,  golden-faced; 

Fresh  as  a  young  nasturtium — 
And  sharper  to  the  taste. 


NOCTURNE 

What  was  that  so  hidden 

In  your  guarded  mirth, 
When  the  veils  of  purple  moonlight 

Screened  the  timid  earth? 

When  impetuous  April 
Called  its  reticent  bride, 

What  was  in  your  laughter 
That  you  could  not  hide?   .    .   . 

Now  a  bird's  note  rises, 

Colorless  and  cool, 
Like  a  spray  of  silver  bubbles 

From  a  snowy  pool. 

And  you  smile,  a  warmer 
Mystery  than  the  bird's. 

Come,  reveal  the  music — 
Never  mind  the  words. 


LANGUAGE 

On  the  soft  heaven  of  your  breast, 

My  worn-out  body  lies; 
Infinite  solace,  infinite  rest 

Lift  me  through  opening  skies. 

Beyond  myself,  toward  some  far  goal, 

I  mount,  peak  after  peak; 
Great  waves  of  music  wash  my  soul. 

And  then — you  start  to  speak. 

Swiftly  the  calm  and  casual  word 

Severs  us  each  from  each; 
The  earth  springs  back  with  your  absurd 

Relapse  to  empty  speech. 

I  tumble  down  from  heaven  and  clutch 

At  stars  my  fingers  miss. 
O  close  your  lips;  they  move  too  much 

Save  when  they  move  to  kiss. 


Language  53 

Be  still,  I  tell  you.    Let  us  lie 

And  feel  Love's  silent  growth. 
O,  never  speak  at  all,  for  I 

Can  talk  enough  for  both! 


CATALOGUE 

Why  all  these  fears  and  feigned  alarms 
That  never  can  pretend  to  blind  me? 
Let  me  enumerate  the  charms 

With  which  you  bind  me. 

First,  I  shall  list  one  pair  of  eyes, 

Like  flame  beneath  some  smouldering  fuel; 
A  mouth  that's  witty  if  not  wise, 
Half  kind,  half  cruel. 

Thirdly,  there  are  two  tapering  hands, 

So  delicate  and  diamond-spangled; 
And  there's  your  hair,  in  whose  bright  strands 
I  lie  entangled. 

Your  breast,  all  rose  and  silk  and  pearl; 

Your  laugh,  a  bright  and  sharpened  sickle; 
Your  whims,  dear  and  distracting  girl, 
Footloose  and  fickle. 

54 


Catalogue  55 

Your  kiss,  a  wine  that  has  no  dregs; 

Your  love,  a  bird  that  seldom  perches. 
And  I  must  add  your  lyric  legs — 
Two  dancing  birches. 

But  most  of  all  I  love  your  pride, 

As  firm  as  mine  that  I  believe  in. 
Stubborn  and  selfish;  hard  inside  .    .    . 
That  makes  us  even. 


"  SO  REIN  UNO  SCHON  " 
(With  a  volume  of  Heine) 

Like  some  young  flower,  cool  and  white, 
With  the  stars'  kiss  still  on  its  brow, 

You  shine  through  my  heart's  dusk,  and  light 
The  dark  concern  that  gathers  now. 

Half  on  my  lips,  a  fearful  hope 
Starts  like  a  prayer,  already  planned. 

Toward  your  bright  head  my  fingers  grope  .  . 
But  something  holds  my  hand. 

Prayers  are  not  what  you  want.    I  see 
That,  when  all  other  beauty  fails, 

You  will  not  alter,  you  will  be 
So  white  and  young — and  hard  as  nails. 


56 


RAPUNZEL 

Let  down  your  hair, 
That  cloudy-gold  lure, 

The  delicate  snare 
That  holds  me  secure. 

Delight  and  despair 
War  with  me  now — 

Let  down  your  hair. 

Shake  out  each  curl 

Swiftly,  and  be 
Like  Spring,  a  wild  girl 

With  her  hair  flying  free. 
Bury  me  there, 

And  be  buried  with  me  . 
Let  down  your  hair! 


57 


WINDY  DAYS 

The  red  wind  tears  and  the  bright  leaves  are 

hurled 

Down  to  their  death.    A  rain  of  crimson  spots 
The  rusty-colored  earth;  the  young  fruit  rots, 
Killed  by  the  fiery  gusts  that  sweep  the  world. 
There  is  a  treacherous  poison  in  the  year 
That  withers  every  branch  and  delicate  fern; 
Even  the  cloudy  heavens  smoke  and  burn  .   .   . 
And  what,  beloved,  are  we  doing  here? 

There's  no  escape;  this  tiny  stretch  of  park 
Echoes  the  clash  and  thunder  of  the  town. 
We  cannot  lose  the  world;  it  tracks  us  down 
And  spreads  its  wars  till  even  peace  grows  dark, 
Here  where  no  bird  dares  lift  a  frightened  wing 
To  try  new  heights  or  find  a  place  to  sing. 


BRAIN  AND  HEART 

What  fertile  and  malignant  plan 

To  flood  the  world  with  greater  pain, 

Could  so  desire  to  torture  man 
By  giving  him  a  heart  and  brain. 

Crippled  with  these,  he  cannot  be 

A  beast,  a  basker  in  the  sun, 
A  growing  pleasure  like  a  tree, 

But  he  must  cower,  cringe  and  run 

Before  the  winds  of  memories 
That  rumble  with  his  childhood's  fears; 

A  handful  of  hypocrisies 

Still  sends  him  reeling  through  the  years. 

Poor  worms  that  die  upon  a  crust, 
Betrayed  and  bitten  by  a  dream, 

Maggots  that  yield  to  every  lust 
With  a  deific  self-esteem; 

59 


60  Brain  and  Heart 

Driven  by  every  twist  of  thought 
Beyond  their  pitiful  desires — 

In  what  net  are  these  creatures  caught; 
Plunged  in  what  self -enkindled  fires? 

If  there's  one  god  who  sees  a  part 
Of  all  men's  burdens — old  or  new — 

He'll  take  away  this  brain  and  heart 
And  let  the  poor  things  muddle  through. 


MOZART 

How  calmly  this  beauty  falls, 
Confident,  careless  and  futile; 
Like  rain  upon  troubled  waters 
Or  stars  on  a  field  of  battle. 

The  night,  this  music,  these  times 
And  you  are  clashing  within  me. 
I  am  bruised  and  broken  with  visions, 
A  dark  wood  where  sunlight  is  splintered. 


61 


BEYOND  SOUND 

The  poets  cry,  the  preachers  drone 
Of  glories  that  are  never  heard. 

And  yet  the  moon,  a  worn  white  stone, 
Says  all  they  say  without  a  word. 

Their  praise  is  loud,  they  smite  the  air 
With  eloquent  and  clashing  zeal; 

They  force  their  love,  while  they  declare 
'Tis  only  half  of  what  they  feel. 

Their  thundering  speech  is  quickly  done; 

Hushed  by  the  deathless  hymn  that  flows 
From  the  mute  passion  of  the  sun, 

The  burning  silence  of  a  rose. 


62 


CONFIDENCE 

Supposing  the  night  should  roar 

Like  a  great  beast  unchained, 
And  the  river  in  front  of  my  door 

Should  rise  with  a  rending  voice; 
Though  all  the  leaves  of  the  oak 

In  a  gust  of  derision  were  rained, 
And  the  winds  should  tramp  till  they  broke 

All  things  that  dance  or  rejoice — 

Still  I  would  smile  and  have  peace 

Though  the  passionless  stars  should  go  mad; 
Knowing  this  frenzy  must  cease 

And  quiet  will  sing  to  me  soon. 
I  know  that  a  silent  laughter 

Will  comfort  me  when  I  am  clad 
In  the  golden  indifference  of  sunlight 

And  the  silver  scorn  of  the  moon. 


63 


DISTANCES 

I  read  your  note,  and  with  it  comes 

A  feverish  expectancy; 
It  stirs  my  blood  as  though  great  drums 

Were  calling  out  in  me. 

Out  of  the  struggling  lines,  a  hand 
Gropes  and  your  large  eyes  make  me  start; 

You  mock  at  space,  although  we  stand 
A  hundred  miles  apart. 

Yet  when  we  two  come  face  to  face, 
I  have  a  different  sense  of  loss; 

Somewhere,  there  is  a  widening  space 
We  cannot  hope  to  cross. 

The  distance  grows,  it  stretches  far, 
Even  when  we  lie  heart  to  heart. 

You  hold  me  close — and  yet  we  are 
Ten  thousand  miles  apart! 


ALMOST 

My  sweetheart  has  beneficent  arms 
So  full  of  tenderness  and  fire, 

They  almost  cheat  her  other  charms 
The  way  they  rouse  and  still  desire. 

My  sweetheart  has  the  kindest  breast, 
Two  heavens  with  each  a  single  star; 

They  give  me  everything  but  rest, 
So  strange  these  rosy  pillows  are. 

My  sweetheart  has  the  hungriest  lips 
That  seek  and  press  unsparingly; 

They  probe  until  she  almost  slips 
Among  her  kisses  into  me. 

My  sweetheart's  body  is  a  cry, 
A  poignant  and  resistless  call; 

It  almost  makes  me  wonder  why 
She  hasn't  any  mind  at  all. 


65 


HOMAGE 

Now  that  I've  won  you,  you  complain 

I  have  forgotten  how  to  woo  you. 
My  words,  you  say,  have  lost  the  strain 

That  drove  the  young  blood  singing  through 
you. 

No  longer  do  I  celebrate 

"Your  hair  that  shames  the  fire  of  Titian"; 
Nor  swear,  "  Your  beauty  is  so  great 

That  it  would  check  a  god's  ambition." 

I  have  forgotten  how  to  play 

The  nimble  echo,  nimbler  servant. 

But  I  do  homage  in  a  way 
That  is  less  facile  but  more  fervent. 

I  worship  as  a  mortal  can; 

And  something  more  than  words  must  show  it, 
I  love  you  too  much  as  a  man 

To  want  to  love  you  as  a  poet! 

66 


THE  EMBARRASSED  AMORIST 

I  cannot  choose  between  them  now, 

And  yet  I  have  to  choose. 
A  hand,  a  foot,  a  child-like  brow, 

Enrapture  me.  .    .    .   But  whose? 

I  seem  to  have  no  will  at  all, 

Only  a  stubborn  need; 
Blindly  I  follow  beauty's  call 

Wherever  it  may  lead. 

I  run  to  Anna's  soothing  arms, 
Knowing  that  peace  is  best — 

And  then  the  thought  of  Lucy's  charms 
Provokes  me  out  of  rest. 

I  tear  myself,  but  I  am  loath 
To  tear  my  soft  chains  free. 

How  can  I  strike  at  one,  when  both 
Seem  so  wrapped  up  in  me? 


68  The  Embarrassed  Amorist 

And  though  I  know  what  should  be  done, 
I  know  what  I  cannot  do.  .  .  . 

It's  heaven  to  be  in  love  with  one 
But  hell  to  be  loved  by  two! 


THE  VOICE 

I  cannot  recall  your  features, 
Your  words  I  scarcely  caught; 

But  I  shall  always  remember 
The  vision  that  they  brought: — 

Blue  depths  and  a  cool  air  ruffling 

The  silver  tops  of  trees; 
A  thousand  young  stars  dancing 

Down  dark,  adventurous  seas. 

Voices  of  children  and  heroes; 

The  moon  on  the  crest  of  a  wave; 
A  challenge  of  golden  trumpets 

Over  a  restless  grave. 


A  STREET  WALKER 

Four  times  she  has  passed  this  place, 

Seeking  a  lover  or  food; 
With  what  was  a  childlike  face 

Turned  hardened  and  shrewd. 

Her  eyes  looked  left  and  right 
With  scarcely  a  turn  of  the  head; 

They  were  glassy  and  far  too  bright 
Like  the  eyes  of  the  dead. 

The  glare  of  the  arclight  strips 
Her  glamour  and  feeble  pretense; 

The  smile  on  those  shrunken  lips 
Would  make  a  man  wince. 

Yet,  in  those  terrible  eyes 
And  in  that  gesture,  I  see 
A  poignance  that  struggles  and  cries 
Directly  to  me. 
70 


A  Street  Walker  71 

The  failure,  the  baffled  grace 
Is  something  I  somehow  knew. 

That  hard,  little,  pitiful  face— 
It  might  have  been  you. 


THE  DERELICT 

She  drifts  by  under  the  lights, 
Flaunting  her  tattered  sails; 
Wreck  of  a  thousand  nights 
And  a  thousand  gales. 

A  derelict,  yet  she  trades 

With  an  ensign  that's  never  furled; 
An  outcast,  though  she  parades 
The  flags  of  the  world. 

Washed  by  the  tides  of  unrest, 

Chartless,  but  never  free, 
She  floats  on  the  passionate  breast 
Of  a  passionless  sea. 


72 


IMPLICATION 

God,  you  complain,  gave  you  a  pretty  face — 
And  that,  you  half  imply,  explains  it  all; 
Your  sudden  rise  and  still  more  sudden  fall; 

The  flashy  triumph  and  half-proud  disgrace. 

Bitter,  but  still  resolved  to  keep  your  place, 
You  mock  at  signs  of  faith  and  honor,  call 
Life  an  unmeaning  farce,  a  madman's  brawl, 

And  lay  it  all  on  Him,  in  any  case. 

But  why  blame  God?    Is  it  His  fault  again? 

He  knows,  it  seems,  little  of  needs  or  goals; 
God's  a  haphazard  giver,  and  all  men 

Grow  careless  with  their  battered  aureoles. 
He  made  you  with  a  pretty  face.  .  .  .But  then, 

God  can  not  make  us  all  with  pretty  souls. 


73 


TECHNIQUE 

So  that's  to  be  your  tale?    But  who'll 

Believe  you? 
What  sort  of  mad,  incredible  fool 

Could  so  deceive  you? 

One  could  as  easily  betray, 

I  warrant, 
A  lioness  or,  full  of  play, 

Seduce  a  torrent. 

You  charge  your  anguish  with  a  rough 

Bravado  .   .   . 

But  is  one  always  carried  off 
By  a  tornado? 

"Wronged!    Wronged!"   you   trumpet.     "Led 
astray!  " 

You  shout  it. 
Vengeance?    But  really,  that's  no  way 

To  go  about  it. 

74 


Technique  75 

Too  loud  for  sympathy,  and  still 

Too  pretty, 
Your  robust  protestations  kill 

Our  faltering  pity. 

The  crushed  and  half-bewildered  air 

Is  better. 
With  this,  you'll  find  a  host  to  wear 

The  tightening  fetter. 

A  drooping  pathos  that  is  frail 

But  quiet  ... 
And,  when  you're  wronged  again,  turn  palej 

And  gulp — and  try  it. 


GHOSTS 

The  long  street  blares,  the  arclight  throws 
A  singing  halo  'round  your  head; 

And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  that  glows, 
This  is  a  city  of  the  dead. 

Dead,  they  are  dead,  these  folk  who  run 
Through  pleasure  in  such  darkening  hosts; 

While  the  old  moon,  a  long  dead  sun, 
Grins  at  this  cavalcade  of  ghosts. 

Dead,  they  are  dead  to  every  spark 
Of  struggling  beauty,  passionate  aim; 

Touched  by  some  fire  in  the  dark, 
They  smoulder  but  they  cannot  flame. 

They  are  too  dead  to  burn;  too  damp 
With  mouldy  thoughts  and  rotting  peace; 

Life  is  to  them  a  low-turned  lamp 
Lighting  them  to  a  bed  of  ease. 
76 


Ghosts  77 

This  masque  of  faces,  dull  and  bland- 
Are  these  the  tribes  that  bore  and  bled? 

You  smile.  .    .    .  You  do  not  understand. 
Good  God!    Can  even  you  be  dead ! 


THE  SHRINE 

Beautiful,  wise — but  you  do  not  compel 

Worship  beyond  a  bent  and  willing  knee; 
Your  loveliness  is  a  familiar  bell 
Ringing  incessantly. 

Yours  is  a  dazzling  and  unblemished  shrine; 

The  niches  burn  with  color,  candles  sing. 
Yet  bread  is  bread,  and  water  is  not  wine 
For  all  your  murmuring. 

Yes,  you  are  like  a  splendid  house  of  prayer, 
A  sanctuary  where  no  joy  has  trod; 

But  I  can  never  stand  in  reverence  there 
Where  there  are  lights  and  altars — but  no  god. 


ADVICE 

And  do  you  truly  feel  surprise 

That  I  no  longer  idolize; 

That  I  who  seemed  to  bow  and  pray 

Have  smashed  my  gods  and  run  away. 

You  cannot  think  how  much  it  pains 

To  slip  the  ineffectual  chains; 

But  many  others,  you'll  agree, 

Will  wear  them  far  more  gracefully. 

So  dry  those  forced,  infrequent  tears — 

Emotion  always  interferes 

With  the  manipulated  grace 

Of  your  svelte  hands  and  chiselled  face. 

It  takes  a  special  sort  of  art 

To  simulate  a  broken  heart, 

And  you  should  never  try  to  act 

A  part  where  fancy  turns  to  fact. 

Always  you  should  maintain  that  air 

Of  hushed  and  delicate  despair; 

The  mood  of  great  things  to  suppress 

That  you  first  wore  with  such  success. 

79 


80  Advice 

Never  should  you  attempt  again 

The  role  of  the  tragedienne, 

The  worn-out  rant  that  tries  to  show 

A  passion  you  can  never  know. 

Be  cool  or  dutiful  or  dense, 

But  never  try  to  be  intense. 

Your  other  lures  were  swift  and  strong. 
You  caught  me  in  the  snares  of  song; 
You  put  soft  fetters  on  my  feet; 
But — ere  your  mastery  was  complete — 
You  tried  for  greater  power:  you  sought 
To  charm  me  in  the  realms  of  thought. 
Oh  self-deluded  girl,  what  vain 
Pride  made  you  dare  that  dark  domain. 
Trying  to  rule  in  that  strange  land, 
The  sceptre  trembled  in  your  hand. 
It  fell.    You  tottered;  clung  to  me; 
Then,  growing  frightened,  set  me  free. 

My  dear,  you  should  have  been  content 
With  a  more  lenient  government; 
You  should  have  let  your  beauty  go 
Down  the  light  roadsides  that  you  know. 


Advice  8 1 

Playing  an  inconspicuous  part, 
You  would  have  held  me,  hand  and  heart. 
But  no — you  thought  that  you  could  bind 
My  fetterless  and  scornful  mind. 

Farewell   .    .    .  Why,  you  look  half-resigned! 


HAUNTED  HOUSE 

A  drab  old  house  on  the  meadow 

Seen  from  the  train; 
Its  color  eaten  by  sunlight, 

Its  years  washed  in  by  the  rain. 

In  the  tarnished  dusk  it  stands  there, 

Emptied  of  all  delight; 
Its  windows,  like  eyeless  sockets, 

Stare  on  an  endless  night. 

Suddenly  one  raw  sunbeam 
Writhes  like  a  thing  in  pain, 

And  the  eyes  of  that  grim  house  sparkl< 
And  go  dead  again. 


82 


WORDS  FOR  A  JIG 

(To  be  danced  on  the  grave  of  an  enemy) 
Thus  I  pay  the  visit 

Promised  years  ago. 
Tell  me,  loyal  friend,  how  is  it 
There  below? 

Do  these  weeds  and  mullein 

Choke  each  angry  mood, 
Or  increase  your  hard  and  sullen 

Torpitude? 

You  who  sought  distractions 

Howsoever  base, 
Have  you  learned  to  love  inaction's 

Slower  pace? 

Here,  at  least,  youVe  found  that 

You  belong  to  earth; 
Dying  on  the  careless  ground  that 

Gave  you  birth. 
83 


84  Words  for  a  Jig 

Do  not  let  it  fret  you ; 

Things  are  not  so  drear. 
Though  the  heartless  world  forget  you, 

/  am  here! 

/  have  not  forgotten 

How  you  loved  the  stir; 
Black  at  heart  and  doubly  rotten 

Though  you  are. 

So  I  take  my  fiddle, 

And  I  roar  a  stave; 
Dancing  gaily  on  the  middle 

Of  your  grave. 

And  I  tramp  the  new  wood, 

And  I  shout  halloo — 
All  the  lively  things  that  you  would 

Like  to  do. 

Such  regard  must  cheer  you 

In  your  misery, 
Although  I  can  scarcely  hear  you 

Thanking  me. 


Words  for  a  Jig  85 

But  I  ask  no  hands  in 

Thanks  or  loud  applause; 
I  am  glad  to  sing  and  dance  in 

Such  a  cause. 

Thus  I  pay  the  visit 

Promised  years  ago.   .    .    . 
Tell  me,  loyal  friend,  how  is  it 

There  below? 


NIGHTMARE 

It  was  cold  that  night  by  the  lake, 
Something,  I  knew,  was  wrong 

Though  I  whistled  and  tried  to  make 
The  ends  of  a  broken  song. 

Our  footsteps  crunched  like  a  bite 
On  leaves  where  the  frost  was  strewn; 

There  was  something  false  in  the  light 
Of  that  tarnished  disc  of  a  moon. 

Like  a  rusty  shield  it  hung 

Over  a  freezing  abyss, 
Cold  as  my  heart,  when  you  clung 

And  stabbed  me  there  with  a  kiss. 

Then  it  grew  light.    I  saw  ships 

Huddling  with  frozen  spars, 
Your  tell-tale  eyes  and  your  lips, 

And  a  sky  that  was  stabbed  with  stars. 


HABIT 

Whatever  may  be  false,  let  us  agree 

This  much  is  true: 
You  have  no  magic  left  for  me, 

I  wake  no  thrill  in  you. 

You  never  speak  of  it,  and  yet  I  know 

The  tale  is  told; 
Your  kiss  is  plainer  than  a  blow, 

Too  casual  to  be  cold. 

Well,  let  our  yawning  passion  end  unmarred 

By  all  that's  mean; 
There  is  no  thing  so  base  and  hard 

As  love's  enforced  routine. 


87 


END  OF  THE  COMEDY 

Eleven  o'clock,  and  the  curtain  falls. 
The  cold  wind  tears  the  strands  of  illusion; 
The  delicate  music  is  lost 
In  the  blare  of  home-going  crowds 
And  a  midnight  paper. 

The  night  has  grown  martial; 

It  meets  us  with  blows  and  disaster. 

Even  the  stars  have  turned  shrapnel, 

Fixed  in  silent  explosions. 

And  here  at  our  door 

The  moonlight  is  laid, 

Like  a  drawn  sword. 


THE  WORN  STRING 

The  weeks  go  past,  the  months  slip  by, 

The  magic  mood  has  lost  its  thrill. 
And  what,  I  wonder,  is  the  tie 
That  holds  me  still. 

My  eyes,  cleared  of  the  glamour,  see 

You  are  not  whimsical  or  wild; 
A  spirit  footloose  but  not  free, 
Childish,  yet  not  a  child. 

On  the  soft  airs  of  life  you  float, 

A  butterfly  with  lazy  wings; 
Too  purposeless  to  heed  or  note 
Ominous  things. 

Impervious  to  every  taunt 

You  dream  and  drift;  you  will  not  set 
Yourself  to  win  the  things  you  want. 
You  sink — and  yet  .    .    . 


90  The  Worn  String 

Yet  I  must  make  you  glad  and  long 
For  things  you  only  half  divine; 
You  are  not  great,  you  are  not  strong, 
But  you  are  mine. 


THE  UNFINISHED  PARTING 

Why  did  she  come?    It  would  have  been  much 
better 

Had  she  but  stayed  away. 
How  could  I  hurt  her  then  and  let  her 

Hear  what  I  had  to  say. 

She  came  and  sat  there  huddled,  white  and  silent; 

Not  even  daring  to  speak. 
Against  that  mood  I  knew  my  violent 

Words  would  be  cruel  and  weak. 

She  had  her  best  dress  on,  that  cheap  and  flimsy 

Affair  of  ribbons  and  tags. 
It  seemed  a  sort  of  pride  or  whimsy, 

Like  a  ship  going  down  with  flags. 

She  knew  we  were  to  part  there  without  quarrel 
ing; 

She  nodded  while  I  spoke, 
And  bravely  smiled  till  I  said  "  Darling  " 
And  then  she  quivered  and  broke. 
91 


92  The  Unfinished  Parting 

Sharper  than  strength  and  stronger  far  than  duty, 

I  felt  her  silence  press 

The  claim  that  held  me,  more  than  faith  or 
beauty: 

Her  helplessness. 


THE  LAST  DAY 

I  never  thought  our  love  could  be  so  much 
More  than  the  passion  we  could  not  resist, 

Until  the  end,  when  you  turned  back  to  touch 
That  rusty  bench  where  first  we  sat  and  kissed. 

I  never  saw  the  cruel  world  so  fair, 
Nor  knew  how  fast  youth's  bit  of  flame  must 

die, 

Until  I  saw  you  standing  silent  there 
With  your  young  face  against  that  wrinkled 
sky. 


THE  PARK  REVISITED 

This  is  the  place;  here  is  the  tiny  gap 
Left  in  the  hedge  through  which  we  tried  to 
squeeze. 

And  here's  the  stretch  of  mall,  that  soft  green  lap 
We  entered  shyly,  guarded  by  the  trees. 

These  are  the  same  black  twigs  with  their  strange 
growth 

Of  brilliant  yellow  buds,  that  seem  as  though 
They  held  all  last  year's  sun.    And  here  we  both 

Paused  where  the  path  ran  off,  and  let  it  go. 

A  moment,  I  remember,  you  stood  still, 
Facing  me  glowing  and  yet  gravely  there — 

And  then  you  stumbled,  laughing,  up  the  hill, 
Shaking  down  all  your  tossed  and  yellow  hair. 

I  caught  you  at  the  top  and,  as  we  hung 
Above  the  world,  you  trembled  to  the  tips 

Of  your  cool  fingers.    Then  you  turned  and  clung, 
No  longer  frightened,  to  my  arms  and  lips. 

94 


The  Park  Revisited  95 

In  what  a  torrent  of  imperative  gladness 
Love  swept  us  there;  with  what  a  reckless  glow 

We  laughed  at  things  like  Time.   .    .    .  And  was 

this  madness 
In  these  prim  walks  less  than  a  year  ago? 


FAIRMOUNT  CEMETERY 

Of  all  the  nooks  discovered, 
I  like  our  first  love  best; 

That  screened-off  bit  of  hillside, 
A  soft,  green  nest. 

A  stream  uncoiled  beyond  us; 

Trees  shook  their  smoky  plumes; 
And,  like  a  still  procession, 

Marched  the  white  tombs. 

How  often  we  would  come  there 
To  love  and  talk  of  love; 

The  cemetery  below  us, 
Your  heaven  above. 

And  do  you  still  remember 
The  solemn  pledge  we  tried 

To  write  in  blood  and  could  not? 
And  how  you  cried? 

96 


Fairmount  Cemetery  97 

And  how  I  dared  the  future 
With  many  a  pompous  speech? 

"  What,"  I  stormed,  "  can  touch  us 
Whom  death  cannot  reach! 

"  Pain  shall  drop  his  dagger; 

Care  shall  avert  his  face; 
Defeated  years  shall  triumph 

In  our  embrace! 

"  Rapt  as  two  young  conquerors, 

We  shall  laugh  and  know 
Life  is  all  that  matters. 

We  have  made  it  so. 

"  Life  is  all  that  matters; 

Love  is  all  that  saves  "... 
Then  I  heard  the  dead  men 

Chuckling  in  their  graves. 


AFTER  A  YEAR 

There    was    a    morning    fresh    with    laughing 
airs, 

A  sudden  city-full  of  dancing  feet; 

And  you  came  swiftly  up  the  casual  street, 
Turning  the  landings  into  golden  stairs  .    .    . 

/  have  forgotten  it. 


There  was  an  afternoon  we  met  and  lied, 
Evading  every  claim  with  counter-claim. 
Fearing  at  last  to  call  love  by  its  name, 

We  stopped.     And  then  you  turned  to  me  and 

cried   .    .    . 
I  have  forgotten  it. 


There  was  an  evening  after  torturing  drouth, 
With  long  hot  silences  and  words  ill-spent; 
Suddenly  your  hurt  eyes  turned  eloquent 

And  your  cool  lips  lay  quiet  on  my  mouth  . 
/  have  forgotten  it. 

98 


After  a  Year  99 

There  was  a  night — I  hear  your  white  voice  yet 
Cleaving  us  as  we  hung  there,  heart  to  heart, 
"  Come,  let  us  kiss  and  part  as  friends  would 
part, 

And  grieve  a  month  or  two,  and  so  forget "... 
Have  you  forgotten? 


RETROSPECT 

Why  should  this  down-at-heels  December  day 
Remind  me  of  the  springs  we  knew  together, 

Of  your  thin  hands  and  the  peculiar  way 
You  had  of  looking  back,  hard  to  tell  whether 
The  eyes  were  solemn  or  gay? 

It's  raining,  a  slow,  penetrating  rain, 

Ending  an  afternoon  of  heavy  languor. 
And,  like  a  trumpet-blast  or  a  gust  of  pain, 
Comes  your  young  face,  flushed  with  a  queer 
anger, 

Trying  too  hard  to  explain. 

Trying  to  sound  a  note  you  could  never  find; 
Struggling  to  reach  the  depths  of  a  puzzling 

emotion; 
Groping  among  strange  passions,  bewildered  and 

blind  .    .    . 

Dear,  how  I  envied  that  dogged  devotion — 
All  heart  and  no  mind! 

100 


Retrospect 

The  strained  assurance,  the  hysterical  vow 

That  silence,  war  or  death  could  never  sunder 
Our  bonds,  our  faith,  and  so  on.  .    .    .  Yet  some 
how 

Those   words   persist,   and   this   cold   day   I 
wonder 

Who  hears  them  now. 


CHANGE 

What  tricky  chance,  I  wonder,  made  us  meet 
After  these  stubborn  years.  In  what  a  daze 

I  saw  you  smile  and  pass  me  on  the  street, 
While  I  stood  staring  at  your  altered  face. 


Where  were  those  lights  that  woke  a  restless 

magic 
And  leaped  to   find  a   swift  and  answering 

gleam? 

Where  the  inscrutable  eyes,  the  dark  and  tragic 
Lashes  that  drove  me  on  from  dream  to  dream? 


Where  were  those  mobile  features?    Where  the 

lips 

I  liked  to  think  were  proud,  with  just  a  strain 
Of  Eastern  cruelty.  .  .  .  The  glamour  slips  .  .  . 
You  have  grown  soft  and  common,  pink  and 
plain. 

103 


Change  103 

What  right  had  you  to  change!     You  come  to 
wake 

Questions  instead  of  clamorings  in  me. 
Could  I  have  been  so  blind,  or  did  I  make 

You  only  what  I  wanted  you  to  be? 

And  am  I  glad  your  presence  left  me  cold? 

Or  do  I  wish,  perhaps,  I  had  been  fired 
With  last  year's  flames?     Can  this  be  growing 
old? 

And  am  I  wise  this  Spring,  or  merely  tired? 


DISILLUSION 

The  end  is  failure.    Now  the  last 
Pretense  goes  down,  a  frayed  disguise, 

A  cheap  and  folly-ridden  past 
Is  what  I  have  to  prize. 

Sharper  than  all,  the  irony 
Of  being  caught  in  my  own  mesh; 

The  self-deceit  that  tried  to  be 
An  exaltation  of  the  flesh. 

The  grandiose  emotions  seem 
Ridiculously  small  and  crass; 

A  fooPs  attempt  to  build  a  dream 
Lower  than  what  he  wants — and  has. 

Failure.    Yet  this  I  gain  thereby: 
When  my  desires  grow  feverish, 

At  least  they  will  not  strain  and  try 
To  find  a  goddess  in  a  wish. 


104 


FREE 

And  suddenly  the  touch  of  flesh 

Is  hateful  as  these  hungry  curves ; 
And  every  point  of  contact  is  a  fresh 
Agony  to  these  whipped  and  exhausted  nerves. 

Warm  hollows,  will  you  never  let 

Me  go  till  you  have  buried  all  my  will? 

Oh,  to  be  free  of  the  body,  to  lie  and  forget 
The  use  of  lips  and  hands,  to  lie  and  be  still. 

I  want  a  bed  with  room  to  spare, 

Where  nothing  breathes  and  sleep  is  sure; 

There  lust  shall  have  a  deeper  sense,  for  there 
The  worm  shall  be  my  only  paramour. 

Slowly  the  worm  shall  have  his  fill 

(As  I  have  had)  of  flesh  and  frequency, 

Until  the  body  falls  away,  until 

Passion  devours  me — and  sets  me  free. 


105 


GOLD  AND  WHITE 

The  snow  on  the  yellow  pavement; 

And  the  light  of  your  coming — 
Why  should  it  make  my  cooled  blood  hot 

With  a  new  drumming? 

And  my  mind  runs  back  to  a  windy  meadow, 

Where  the  wind  lays  his 
Breath  on  an  agitated  pool  of  buttercups 

With  a  froth  of  daisies. 

Waves  of  yellow  and  white  where  a  lavish  tide 

Has  flung  them; 
Tossed  in  a  bright  and  futile  abandon — 

And  you  among  them.  .   .   . 

You  stand,  as  you  stood  there,  strangely  unreal, 

Warm  and  quiescent. 

Yet  something  eludes  me;   you  melt  like  these 
snowflakes, 

Escaping  the  present. 


106 


SURRENDER 

I  have  given  myself  to  Life 

Utterly. 

Not  knowing  what  she  will  do  with  me 

Nor  what  thing,  in  the  end,  she  will  make  me  do. 

She,  the  most  proud  and  passionate  mistress, 

Shall  laugh  and  possess  me, 

Calling,  holding  me  close  and  carousing; 

Filling  the  cups  of  my  love 

Till  she  knows  I  am  sated. 

And  then — I  shall  leave  her 

Slowly,  half-heartedly; 

Turning  from  her  warm  side  to  a  warmer  breast. 

Finding,  at  last,  the  long-sought  and  perfect, 

Deep-eyed  and  patient 

Mistress  and  mother. 


107 


THE  PRODIGAL 

Abashed  and  blundering  I  have  come  back 
To  force  the  liberal  bounty  of  your  love; 
To  ask  for  what  I  never  had  to  lack 
Or  take  too  little  of. 

The  brazen,  desperate  demands 

Are  halted  by  your  clouded  eyes; 

Your  cooling  and  compassionate  hands 

Choke  my  well-meaning  lies. 

Your  wounded  faith,  your  lavish  love, 

The  glittering  heights  I  cannot  reach, 
Those  bright  nobilities  reprove 
Me  more  than  any  speech. 

Softly  your  silence,  like  an  unrung  bell, 

Breaks  into  gentle  music,  and  the  black 
Barriers  lift  as,  from  a  transient  hell, 
I  have  come  back. 


108 


THE  CURE 

"  Heal  me,  beloved,  and  have  me 

Strong  at  your  side. 
I  am  weak,  I  am  cold  and  hungry 

For  all  that  you  have  denied. 
I  shall  die  with  loving  a  promise — 

Heal  me!  "  he  cried. 

She  put  her  hands  on  his  forehead; 

She  touched  his  lips  and  sighed. 
With  a  warm  and  lavish  abandon, 

She  flung  off  her  pride. 
She  healed  him  of  his  sickness, 

And  it  was  she  that  died. 


109 


THE  WISE  WOMAN 

His  eyes  grow  hot,  his  words  grow  wild; 

He  swears  to  break  the  mold  and  leave  her. 
She  smiles  at  him  as  at  a  child 
That's  touched  with  fever. 

She  smoothes  his  ruffled  wings,  she  leans 

To  comfort,  pamper  and  restore  him; 
And  when  he  sulks  or  scowls,  she  preens 
His  feathers  for  him. 

He  hungers  after  stale  regrets, 

Nourished  by  what  she  offers  gaily; 
And  all  he  thinks  he  never  gets 
She  feeds  him  daily. 

He  lusts  for  freedom;  cries  how  long 

Must  he  be  bound  by  what  controlled  himl 
Yet  he  is  glad  the  chains  are  strong, 
And  that  they  hold  him. 


no 


The  Wise  Woman  in 

She  knows  he  feels  all  this,  but  she 
Is  far  too  wise  to  let  him  know  it; 
He  needs  to  nurse  the  agony 
That  suits  a  poet. 

He  laughs  to  see  her  shape  his  life, 

As  she  half-coaxes,  half -commands  him; 
And  groans  it's  hard  to  have  a  wife 
Who  understands  him. 


THE  HOLY  CITY 

You  are  my  holy  city,  my  beloved; 

Dark  as  Jerusalem  and  bright  as  Rome. 
The  gates  of  you  are  opened  generously 
To  take  the  wanderer  home. 

What  foreign  towns  I  knew  have  never  dimmed 

The  burning  memory  of  your  altar-fire; 
My  backward-hungering  heart  has  always  heard 
In  other  songs,  your  choir. 

I  kiss  your  lips  and  dream  of  Lebanon! 

You  are  my  living  Zion:  and  I  rest 
Here  in  the  temple  of  your  body's  grace, 
Beneath  the  white  wall  of  your  breast. 


112 


ESCAPE 

When  toil  with  many  a  promise 
Would  keep  me  in  its  pay, 

Her  breast,  it  is  my  Sabbath, 
Her  lips,  my  holiday. 

I  laugh  at  labor,  knowing 

Its  ineffectual  power 
Here,  in  her  holy  bosom's 

Serene  and  certain  hour. 


Here  I  am  held  and  washed  in 
Waves  of  a  great  content, 

Tides  of  majestic  passions 
That  never  can  be  spent. 

Her  arm  is  some  white  harbor 
Where  ships  can  lie  at  peace, 

And  there  church-bells  are  ringing 
And  happy  songs  increase. 
113 


U4  Escape 

There  I  would  end  my  journeys 
And  never  slip  away — 

Her  breast,  my  singing  Sabbath, 
Her  lips,  my  holiday. 


YOU 

Is  this  your  body  that  my  fingers  touch? 

And  are  these  lips  but  lips,  that  can  reveal 
Splendor  of  marching  skies, — so  much 

More  than  the  flesh  can  feel. 

Under  the  savage  heat  and  rude  desire 
A  sudden  glory  breaks,  half-felt,  half-seen; 

I  rise  upon  a  sea  of  singing  fire 
That  lifts  and  sweeps  me  clean. 

The  rumble  and  the  clash  of  war  have  gone 
Into  my  blood  that  shouts  its  battle-cry; 

Even  your  beauty  keeps  me  struggling  on 
Toward  that  for  which  men  die. 

You  hold  me  closely,  yet  you  set  me  free 
For  unknown  struggles  with  a  great  release; 

You  are  my  red  desire  of  victory 
And  my  white  dream  of  peace. 


"5 


HEREAFTER 

When  Time  with  its  cruel  abandon 

Treats  all  of  our  dreams  with  disdain, 
Though  he  sweeps  out  the  ashes  of  memory, 
Two  things  will  remain. 

Two  things  will  persist  through  the  darkness 

When  Death  reaches  out  for  the  rest: 
Your  flower-like  hand  on  my  forehead; 
My  lips  on  your  breast. 


116 


BIRTHDAY 

Cleave  the  stubborn  heart  of  me. 
Grapple  and  remove 

This  unbearable  apathy- 
Rouse  me  with  your  love. 

With  the  flint  of  loveliness, 

Strike  my  wooden  pride; 
Till,  in  flames,  a  hot  excess 

Burns  me  to  your  side. 

Rising  from  the  coils  of  fire, 

Kindle  this  damp  fuel. 
Surge  within  me;  blaze  and  .    .    . 

No,    no.     This    is   not   right.     The   words    are 

false; 

Even  the  tune  is  wrong. 
Here  I  am  fumbling  with  the  annual  song 
That  hesitates  and  halts 
117 


Ii8  Birthday 

In  cold  repugnance  at  the  lyric  lies. 
What  are  these  cries 
But  cowardly  appeals  for  you 
To  do  what  I  should  do; 
Verbal  mechanics  built  to  shape 
Means  for  a  possible  escape? 

The  lie,  the  pitiful  irony  of  it  all! 

I,  who  have  burned  you  out,  turn  and  appeal 

For  greater  warmth,  new  strength  to  feel 

What  I  have  squandered  in  impenitent  greed  .  .  . 

And  now  I  call 

On  you  again  to  give  me  the  one  thing 

That  you  most  need ! 

Well,  having  started  so  to  sing 

Unworthily,  at  least  I  can  be  still. 

And,  having  fed  on  you,  I  can  begin  to  feed  .  .  . 

But  what  have  I  to  offer?    What  can  fill 

The  empty  balance  of  my  debt?    This  blood, 

Brain  and  body  I  will  break  and  make  into 

A  sacrament  worthy  of  the  starved  desire  of  you. 

Yet  that  will  never  make  it  good. 

The  proffer  of  regenerated  love? 

It  is  not  great  enough. 


Birthday  119 

Only  one  thing  remains — 

The  will  to  make  you  care 

For  what  lies  almost  buried  in  despair; 

The  faith  that,  struggling  from  its  sordid  chains, 

Is  its  own  prayer  .    .    . 

Something  has  taken  root  in  me — or  do  I  grow 
Because  of  it?    No  matter.    This  stays  true, 
This  much  at  least  I  know: 
Through  me  forgotten  flames  will  rise  to  quicken 

you 

With  an  exalted  glow. 
Be  glad,  be  glad  that  now  it  rs  my  turn 
To  make  you  burn! 


FULFILMENT 

Here,  at  your  delicate  bosom,  let  death  come 

To  me 
Where  night  has  made  a  warm  Elysium 

Lulled  by  a  soft,  invisible  sea. 

Now  in  the  porches  of  your  soul  I  stand 

Where  once  I  stood; 
Fed  and  forgiven  by  a  liberal  hand, 

My  broken  boyhood  is  renewed. 

You  are  my  bread  and  honey  set  among 

A  grove  of  spice; 
An  ever-brimming  cup;  a  lyric  sung 

After  the  cannonade  and  battle-cries. 

You  are  my  well-loved  earth,  j or  ever  fresh, 
Forever  prodigal,  forever  fond; 

As,  from  the  sweet  fulfilment  of  the  flesh, 
I  reach  beyond. 


120 


By  Louis  Untermeyer 
CHALLENGE 

(Fourth  Edition.     $1.50  net) 

"  Mr.  Untermeyer  reveals  a  more  lyrical  sympathy  with 
the  modern  world  than  is  found  in  Mr.  Masters  or  Mr. 
Frost.  He  is  first  of  all  a  singer,  while  constantly  deepen 
ing  and  broadening  his  contact  with  contemporary  prob 
lems.  He  may  well  become  the  most  truly  poetical  in 
terpreter  of  our  day." — John  Erskine  in  The  Yale  Review. 

"  Nothing  else  in  recent  poetry  will  so  challenge  attention 
as  this  volume.  .  .  .  Untermeyer's  challenge  is  to  the  con 
ventions  of  life  which  cover  injustice  and  wrong.  He  puts 
such  force  and  intensity  into  what  he  says  that  he  is  bound 
to  be  heard  and,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  heeded."— Philadelphia 
Public  Ledger. 

"  He  is  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  social  revolt,  but  he 
does  not  lose  his  head  in  it.  And,  except  for  Masefield, 
we  know  no  other  poet  of  late  years  in  whom  is  so 
strikingly  revealed  the  magic  power  of  rhyme  and  rhythm 
to  set  thought  on  fire."— N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"Love  and  democracy  are  his  favorite  themes,  and 
few  living  poets  are  worthier  to  sing  them." — The  Literary 
Digest. 

"  No  other  contemporary  poet  has  more  independently 
and  imperiously  voiced  the  dominant  thought  of  these 
times." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  Mr.  Untermeyer  is  a  militant  prophet  of  humanity.  .  .  . 
His  ardor  is  contagious ;  the  volume  is  an  inspiration  as 
well  as  a  challenge." — Louisville  Courier. 

HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND    HOWE 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


By  Louis  Untermeyer 

INCLUDING  HORACE 

(Second  Printing.    $1.60  net} 

This  volume  comes  by  its  name  honestly.  For,  though 
it  is  supposed  to  be  a  series  of  paraphrases  of  the  odes 
of  Horace,  more  than  thirty  other  poets — ancient  and 
modern — appear  in  it.  For  example,  the  volume  starts 
with  a  precise  and  accurate  translation  of  the  famous 
"  Integer  Vitae "  ode.  This  is  immediately  followed  by 
over  twenty  different  versions  of  this  classic  as  it  might 
have  been  translated  by  Robert  Browning,  Robert  Herrick, 
Robert  Frost,  Oscar  Wilde,  Carl  Sandburg,  Walt  Whit 
man,  J.  W.  Riley,  Amy  Lowell  and  many  others — including 
Irving  Berlin ! 

The  poet  turns  juggler,  balancing  Horace  while  keeping 
one  theme,  two  methods  and  a  score  of  schools  in  the  air. 

"  Untermeyer  is  not  merely  a  clever  rhymester ;  he  is  a 
penetrating  critic — and  here  he  operates  upon  the  poets 
without  anaesthetics,  burlesquing  every  shade  of  their  man 
ner  and  exposing  their  smallest  mannerisms  with  joyful 
ferocity.  .  .  .  The  man's  extraordinary  technical  skill  has 
taken  him  round  the  whole  field  of  verse-making.  In  brief, 
the  book  is  a  tour  de  force  of  devastating  humor — a  truly 
impressive  exhibition  of  virtuosity." — H.  L.  Mencken  in 
The  Baltimore  Sun. 

" '  Including  Horace '  is  much  more  than  clever ;  it 
touches  actual  inspiration  at  points.  The  odes  are  trans 
lated  with  a  wealth  of  racy  idiom  and  a  profusion  of  adroit 
rhyme.  .  .  .  This  is  workmanship  of  a  delicate  and  dis 
tinguished  sort." — Pittsburgh  Press. 

"  Horace  has  never — not  even  by  Eugene  Field  or  Frank 
lin  P.  Adams — been  more  vivaciously  echoed.  The  book 
is  rich  in  brilliant  work  and  excellent  fun." — Christopher 
Morley  in  the  N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

"  Mr.  Untermeyer  is  one  of  the  severest  taskmasters  that 
the  world  of  poetry  knows.  All  the  more  extraordinary, 
then,  that  a  poet-critic  who  takes  things  so  seriously  can 
turn  aside  and  write  the  cleverest  parodies  of  any  one  in 
the  ring." — The  Bookman. 

HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND    HOWE 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


By  Louis  Untermeyer 

MODERN  AMERICAN  POETRY 

(Third  Printing.    $1.50  net) 

"  It  was  assuredly  with  the  utmost  versatility  of  taste 
and  comprehensiveness  of  choice  that  Louis  Untermeyer 
set  about  putting  together  this  new  anthology.  The  gamut 
is  great.  .  .  .  There  is  hardly  a  prominent  figure  that 
is  not  noted  by  the  quotation  of  at  least  one  piece.  Mr. 
Untermeyer's  introduction  does  open  the  door  with  vigor." 
— The  N.  Y.  Sun. 

"  Perhaps  the  outstanding  feature  of  Mr.  Untermeyer's 
collection  is  its  comprehensiveness.  Within  the  restricted 
compass,  he  has  secured  representation  for  seventy  poets. 
...  By  arranging  the  anthology  in  chronological  form, 
Mr.  Untermeyer  presents  a  vivid  picture  of  the  develop 
ment  of  American  poetry  from  Emily  Dickinson  to  Alfred 
Kreymborg.  .  .  .  This  quality  of  fairness,  of  tolerant  con 
sideration  for  every  school,  makes  the  book  a  remarkably 
faithful  expression  of  our  modern  poetic  tendencies." — 
N.  Y.  Tribune. 

"  Louis  Untermeyer  has  given  us  not  only  an  anthology 
but  a  handbook  and  guide  to  some  of  the  best  new  poetry 
written  in  America." — Washington  Post  Intelligence. 

"  Despite  the  numerous  anthologies,  Mr.  Untermeyer's 
collection  of  modern  American  verse  fills  a  neglected  need." 
N.  Y.  Post. 

"  I  know  of  no  better  book  for  general  reading  and  for 
use  in  high  schools  and  colleges  as  an  introduction  to 
modern  American  poetry  than  this  anthology  by  a  man 
who  is  both  a  distinguished  poet  and  critic." — Frank  Waller 
Allen,  Illinois  State  Journal. 

HARCOURT,    BRACE    AND    HOWE 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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